[ Harold flip-flops himself on the pronouns, though he's getting more comfortable with she after his days spent with Root's voice in his ear and their difficult exchanges. ]

I walked myself into that one, [ he says dryly. ] The Machine always lets us make our own mistakes.

[ The story trails off, Harold thinking of what else he could add; the humor evaporates as his heart twists in grief. The dinner they'd had together at that wedding was the last time he and Root and John were all together, the last piece of calm, before they'd both died. ]

... She asked me to dance at the reception. I miss her, [ Harold admits, staring down at the chewed-on slipper in his hands. ]